The air in Nusaraya was never truly fresh. A thin haze, laced with industrial smoke, hung low among the towering glass spires, as if refusing to rise toward a sky long forgotten. The stench of burning metal and electric dust was all too familiar to the city's inhabitants, an integral part of the monotonous, oppressive daily grind. For Devara, every morning felt like waking inside a colossal dome that encapsulated the collective suffering of the entire city. That dome wasn't just a metaphor; Nusaraya was indeed encircled by an invisible energy barrier, touted as protection from external threats. To Devara, it was nothing more than a sophisticated prison.
That morning, as usual, Devara awoke to the sharp chime of the alarm implant in her ear. Her tiny apartment in Block 47, Floor 12, was a cramped space filled with standard government-issued furniture: a foldable bed, a desk fused into the wall, and a holographic screen that never turned off, broadcasting morning news about "national progress." She stood before a cloudy mirror, staring at her weary face. At only 28, faint wrinkles had already begun to crease the corners of her eyes, the toll of sleepless nights spent pondering things she shouldn't. Her short black hair was disheveled, and her dark brown eyes reflected an unrelenting unease.
Devara donned her work uniform: a long-sleeved gray shirt with the company emblem on the left chest, black trousers, and worn-out synthetic leather shoes. She grabbed her backpack, checking its contents: a digital ID card, mandatory tranquilizers, and a small notebook hidden in a secret compartment. The notebook held strange sketches she drew during nightmares—images of black shadows and shifting faces. She knew it was dangerous; the government banned unregistered personal writings. But it was the only way she still felt human.
Stepping out of her apartment, she boarded a crowded elevator. The stench of sweat and cheap perfume made her nauseous. Inside, an elderly woman stared at her with vacant eyes, her lips moving silently as if in prayer. Devara avoided eye contact; in Nusaraya, too many glances could be mistaken for a challenge. The elevator stopped at the ground floor, and she joined the stream of humanity flowing toward the subway station.
The station was an organized hell. A chaotic swarm of gray-uniformed people pushed in every direction, like ants in a nest. Their eyes were empty, their faces rigid as if wearing forced masks. Propaganda posters lined the concrete walls: "Obedience for Progress." One showed a worker grinning broadly while holding industrial tools, the city gleaming in the background. In another corner, a massive digital screen played an ad for tranquilizers with a nauseating slogan: "Cast away your worries, surrender them to the state." It featured a restless man who, after taking a pill, transformed into a frozen, unnatural smile.
Devara stood still on the platform, waiting for the perpetually late train. She watched an elderly man shoved aside by armed enforcers just because his trembling legs slowed his pace. The enforcer, clad in glossy black armor with a plasma weapon at their hip, barked, "Move faster, old trash!" The crowd around them averted their eyes, pretending nothing happened, continuing their march as if untouched. Devara clenched her fists, her heart pounding. She knew the consequences of defiance—swift terror, a name erased from the registry, a body never found. This world left no room for blind courage. She remembered her friend Rian, who vanished two years ago after criticizing government policies on social media. No trace, just an official notice: "Reassigned."
The train arrived with a deafening roar. Devara was swept inside by the crowd, her body squeezed between strangers. The air was stifling, and a robotic announcement echoed: "Stay obedient, stay productive." She gripped the metal handrail, trying to breathe calmly. Her mind drifted to her childhood, when Nusaraya was still called the "City of Hope." That was before the corporate coup, before Queen Li and her company seized everything. Her father, an engineer, used to tell her about blue skies and fresh breezes. But he vanished in an "industrial accident" when Devara was 15. Her mother took her own life soon after, leaving Devara alone in the state's foster system.
The train stopped at the city center, and Devara exited quickly, merging with the flow of pedestrians heading to office buildings. The wide streets buzzed with silent electric vehicles, but the smog from factories on the city's outskirts cloaked everything. She passed a synthetic park, where plastic trees stood rigid, their leaves blinking with LED lights. Children played there, but their eyes were as hollow as the adults', already accustomed to a world that never truly lived.
Hours later, on her way to the office, Devara couldn't hold back. A middle-aged woman collapsed on the sidewalk, her body limp, her bag spilling its contents. Her colleagues, passing by, only whispered and mocked. "Look at that, another cripple," said a stocky man named Ando, his tone dripping with disgust. "They think they can get sympathy by faking illness." Others chuckled softly, continuing their walk as if nothing happened.
Without thinking, Devara approached the woman. She knelt, gently lifting her shoulders, helping her stand. "Are you okay, ma'am?" she asked softly. The woman looked at her with red, teary eyes, her breath ragged. "Thank you… young one," she said, her voice trembling and weak. Devara gathered her scattered belongings, ignoring the cynical stares around her. Whispers stung her ears: "Fool… helping trash." A manager from another division even laughed openly, as if kindness were a shameful flaw. "Devara, you want to play hero? Heroes die first here," he said as he walked away.
Devara only lowered her head, helping the woman to a nearby bench. She knew "cripple" could mean many things in Nusaraya. Some faked illness to escape forced labor; others were genuinely broken by industrial toxins. Whatever the reason, Devara couldn't bear to leave a human lying alone on the cold pavement. After ensuring the woman was stable, she continued to the office, her heart heavy. Why was this world so cruel? Why was kindness seen as weakness?
At the office, a glass tower called Nexus Tower, Devara sat at her desk on the 22nd floor. The open-plan room was filled with identical cubicles, the sound of keyboards clattering like metallic rain. Her colleagues, who witnessed the incident, began gossiping. "Devara's playing hero again," said a woman named Lina, her voice sharp. "She knows the company doesn't like overly 'emotional' employees." They spoke of charity, morals, and virtue in morning meetings, but outside, they spat on the weak. Devara was sick of it. She knew hypocrisy's face sharper than the smell of the overheated, smoky photocopier in the corner.
Her job as a data analyst should have been dull: checking production reports, ensuring numbers met government targets. But that day, during lunch break, she decided to dig deeper. In the company's restricted digital archives, she used an old access code from her father to unlock a file: The Night Accident, a tragic event that claimed dozens of lives ten years ago. The file described an explosion at the central factory, but the details were vague, as if censored.
Photos of the victims appeared in a black-and-white grid. Devara zoomed in on each one. But as her eyes blinked, the faces changed. A thin layer seemed to shift, revealing different expressions—wide-open eyes, eerie inhuman smiles, living shadows lurking behind them. She rubbed her eyes, but the screen showed the same thing, as if mocking her sanity. Her heart raced. "This must be a glitch," she muttered. But when she touched the screen, the image flickered, and a faint voice came from the speaker: a low whisper, like wind in a dark corridor.
Devara quickly closed the file, her breath uneven. She glanced around; her colleagues were busy, none suspicious. But the feeling lingered. For the rest of the day, she felt watched, as if invisible eyes followed her every move.
That night, after work, Devara chose to walk home instead of taking the train. The city's night streets glowed with flickering neon lights and dancing holographic ads, promoting products she never needed. But beneath the light, something darker, thicker, loomed. The night air carried a metallic tang, like drying blood. She passed the main road, where street vendors sold synthetic food, their faces tired but forced into smiles.
In a narrow alley between two towering buildings, she saw them—Night Shadows. Gaunt figures with jerky movements, like broken puppets pulled by invisible strings. Their faces had no eyes, only pulsing black voids like diseased hearts. They dragged a young man, his screams drowned by the electric hum of overhead cables. His hands passed through their bodies like smoke. No one else saw; vehicles sped by, pedestrians stared at their devices. Only Devara stood frozen, her body rigid, as if her feet were cemented to the ground.
The sight clawed at her soul. She'd heard old folktales about Night Shadows before the modern era, spirits of tyranny's victims rising for revenge. In Nusaraya, such stories were banned; speaking of them could lead to arrest. Devara wanted to scream, to run and help the man, but her body wouldn't move. The shadows vanished as quickly as they appeared, leaving an empty alley and a stronger metallic stench.
With trembling legs, Devara continued home. Nusaraya's modern world wasn't just sick with corruption and tyranny; it was haunted by something older, darker. Something tied to a hidden past. She wanted to scream to the sky but could only whisper to herself: "Is this real? Or am I losing my mind?"
Back in her tiny apartment, the automatic door clicked open. The room was dark, lit only by the flickering flat screen on the wall. A new message had arrived: Email from HR. The subject was simple: "Meeting with CEO – Tomorrow."
Devara frowned, collapsing onto her bed, exhausted. The CEO? Impossible. Her company, Nexus Corp, was ruled by one name rarely seen: Queen Li. A shadowy figure, part legend, part myth, said to lead from behind the scenes, her frail body confined to a wheelchair. Rumors claimed she was over 100 years old, kept alive by secret technology. Some called her a witch, controlling shadows. Devara had seen her photo once, but the face was always blurred, as if censored.
Sleep didn't come easily that night. Nightmares returned: Queen Li in her wheelchair, long hair cascading, her face a mere shadow. In the dream, she whispered, "You've seen what you shouldn't." Devara woke sweating, the clock showing 3 a.m. She took a tranquilizer, but its effect was weaker than usual; her mind remained restless.
The next day, in the company's lavish lobby with synthetic marble floors and reflective glass walls, Devara waited nervously. She sat on a leather couch, her hands sweaty. A glass panel reflected a faint figure: a woman in a wheelchair, long hair flowing, her face a shadow. The silhouette seemed to stare back at Devara—then vanished as quickly, like an optical illusion.
Devara swallowed hard, her heart pounding. A secretary approached, her face expressionless. "Mr. Devara? The CEO is ready." She was led to a private elevator, ascending to a floor she'd never visited. The doors opened to a dark room, lit only by a holographic screen. In the center sat Queen Li, her small frame in a wheelchair, her black eyes piercing the darkness.
"Come in, Devara," her voice was soft but cold, like the night wind. "You've seen the Night Shadows, haven't you? That means you're ready for the truth."
Devara stood frozen. The modern world that had crushed her was now opening a new door of mystery. And that door was tied directly to Queen Li, who seemed to know everything about the secrets haunting Nusaraya.